


In Sickness and in Health

by pridesenn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 'cause why not, Castiel & Gabriel Are Brothers, I'll add more as I go, M/M, Slow Build, Virus/Infection AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:39:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3505388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pridesenn/pseuds/pridesenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's life was never really fair -- and yet faith has more sick twists up in it's sleeves for him. A lot more, it would seem, than he originally thought to be possible. Can a silver lining be found when you're up against certain death with the bets not on your side? But then karma plays a hand, and Dean might just be lucky for once.</p><p>// on hiatus until i find the plot again</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Quickly wanted to a) thank Lindsey7618AwesomeasPercabeth over on ff.net for beta'ing this and b) to say this is my first time posting on ao3 so I'm still figuring out how this works. Any remaining mistakes are mine, I tend to edit things on the last minute. Also, I won't be updating regularly but hopefully I won't take too long. Depends on my laziness/my beta/school stuff.

It's a normal trip to the doctor – one Dean wouldn't have done if Sam hadn't insisted on it, just because ' _Honestly, Dean, you don't look too good_ '. Dean's not too fond of doctors and people telling him what's wrong about him, but he sticks up for Sam's sake. He owes him that much. At first it goes fine, like Dean half knew it would. He hasn't so much as had a cold for ten years, why would his immune system disappoint him now? Except it's not his immune system that does that – it's his heart.

They're already almost done; nothing wrong with his lungs, nothing in his ears, nothing out of ordinary. Dean's about to tell Sam that he was wrong for once. The doctor's checking if his heart beats regularly, just in case, when she suddenly pulls away from Dean with a gasp, standing from her chair and stepping behind it as if to shield her from Dean. She stares at him, face an unsettling mask of horror and pity.

Sam's up in seconds, asking what's wrong, and this time Dean doesn't complain about his intimidating height because it clearly shakes the doctor awake a bit. She snaps her mouth shut, relaxing slightly but still tense, her face drained from all color. "What is it?" Dean feels cold. He's suppose to be alright – he's always been alright. The doctor sighs, leaning her elbows against the back of her chair and placing her palms on her face. When she straightens up again, it's with a relatively calm expression. "I apologize for my... inappropriate reaction," she starts. Dean notices she's avoiding his eyes. "I have never faced a case like yours before, only heard of it, and I was not prepared. So, I am sorry." There's a long silence, before Sam cuts it. "... A case like Dean's?" The doctor – Dean's pretty sure her name was Millington – looks suprised. "You don't know? About the–" she seems to realize what she was about to say, and stops mid sentence. "If you don't know, I will do my best to explain the situation."

She tells them to wait a few minutes, while she pulls up a few facts and other files from her computer. Sam and Dean exchange a look while she has her back turned, Sam conveying worry and Dean confusion. Then she turns around and starts. "Alright. What we're talking about now isn't exactly classified, but I still have to kindly ask you not to spread around any information unless it's absolutely needed. Understood?" Sam and Dean both nod, and Dean wonders why his normal trip to the doctor is turning out to be the new James Bond film or something. He knew he had a good reason of not liking doctors and hospitals. Doctor Millington clears her throat once, pulling Dean from his thoughts.

"So, about six or seven months ago – we can't be completely sure – something happened. I don't know if there was a mistake done on a hospital, or someone messing up things, or what. But regardless of how, a virus leaked from a testing center in northern Germany and on to the streets. It wasn't noticed until a few patients showed some... symptoms. I will tell them to you soon enough, don't worry." _Yeah, nothing to worry about,_ Dean thinks bitterly. _Just some crazy virus. Everyday stuff_. "The health organisations in Germany looked into it, and found out what had happened. Not any details, but they got a hazy idea. They tried to keep it contained. Needless to say, they failed.

"World Health Organisation got involved, the patients were kept in quarantine rooms, and overall, it was a chaos. Someone named the virus _LH_ , short for ' _Langsam Heartz_ '," she does air-quotes around the last words. "It's German, it means... Well, you'll figure it out when I tell more about the symptoms. Anyway, some people tried to investigate the thing, LH, getting tissue samples and whatnot from those carrying the virus and analyzing it. It gave them a bit more clear understanding of just how big of a deal this was, but not the whole picture. Eventually, the virus spread into a few countries surrounding Germany; France, Belgium, Netherlands and Austria to name a couple. That's when it made the news."

Millington studies them, looking mostly at Sam as if staring at Dean is uncomfortable. "I'm honestly suprised you didn't know any of this." Dean stays silent, letting Sam figure out what to say. He's a lawyer – he's suppose to be good with stuff like this. "We, uh. We were away for a while. Family business." Millington doesn't ask for Sam to elaborate, which is good because Dean doesn't really want to talk about it to anyone, much less to a stranger. After a few silent seconds she continues with her story.

"Right, well, the news about the virus go viral and, as expected, it causes some... chaos, for the lack of better word. People lock themselves in their houses, school's shut down, things like that. WHO starts developing a cure with some other people, which is still an undergoing project at the moment, and all the while general panic spreads like wildfire. And then USA steps into the picture."

She pauses, either to gather her thoughts or to make a dramatic pause. Dean's not sure which is more likely.

"There's a first case of the virus here, in New York City. It was about two months ago or so. And, naturally, everyone freaks out." By now her professional demeanor is starting to slip, replaced by her own choice of words and gestures. "And the president gets involved and everything. Now they've built facilities, sort of, where all those who have the infection – or virus, however you want to call it – are placed into until the cure is ready for use, to contain the virus from spreading more." Dean stares at her, one eyebrow raised. " _Facilities_?" He asks, and he's pretty sure the disbelief is clear in his voice. Millington does her pitying expression again, and even Sam looks at him sadly, and now Dean's not in a James Bond film but instead in one of those really bad drama shows Sam sometimes watches. Millington seems to notice his discomfort – which, really, how observant of her – and quickly starts talking again.

"Well, they're not really facilities, more like..." She trails off, thinking of an example. "Hotels, if that's any better." It's not, but Dean doesn't say anything, and she finishes her speech. "Anyway, you have the symptoms – I don't know why I didn't see it earlier, it's pretty obvious actually – and therefore it's my duty to inform you to my boss, who passes it on forward, and have you placed to the nearest... _Hotel_."

And this is all happening way too fast for Dean to comprehend. This was just suppose to be a quick check-up on his health, not a full-time examination and a _'brief history of LED'_ or whatever the hell it was called. He's feeling pissed, at himself for letting Sam drag him here, at Millington, at Sam. He feels cornered. He has too many questions and yet none at all, because he's brain feels like they're about to explode to pieces, and he can't concentrate on a single sentence. So he blurts out the first thing coming to this head that doesn't sound crazy. "What are the symptoms? And what's the... result of them?"

Millington opens her mouth, shuts it, opens it again. "Are you sure you want to know? I mean, they'll tell you at the fa– hotel anyways, but I just thought..." Dean's definitely sure he _doesn't_ want to know, but he figures if you rip the plaster off quickly it hurts less. So he nods, averting his gaze to the floor because Millington's grey eyes look through him in a way that's unsettling.

"Right. So the first one's, the early stage, are hard to spot. They're pretty basic stuff, like cough, headaches, sore throat, occasional fever, things like that. They go under the radar. But the next one's are another thing. On top of the first symptoms, there's muscle ache, spots in your vision, dizziness, nausea... The list goes on, but those are the most usual. And, of course, the third and last one. Which, it's... it's a bit much, so if you don't want to–"

"Just tell me."

Millington sighs, and Dean traces the cracks on the floor with his eyes while waiting.

"Eventually... eventually your heart rate will slow down to medium, beating only 40 times a minute, maybe less. And then if it gets really, really bad it slows to 20 or lower, before stopping completely. Hence the name, which literally translated means 'slow heart'."

And now that it's mentioned, he does notice how he's heart's beating more seldom than before, and how he feels a little out like he's constantly out of breath. Although, going by what he's just been told, he should feel a lot worse. "I don't have that many symptoms from the second category. So does that... mean anything?" he asks, lifting his head and glancing at Sam before looking at Millington. He can hear the hope in his voice, the small part of him that wishes this is just a misunderstanding or a really bad case of flu taking over. Millington presses her lips into a thin line. "I'm sorry, but no. The lack of symptoms might just be because of your generaly good health, and the fact that you're still relatively young."

The hope washes away, and Dean slouches on the chair. Of course, he'd been stupid to think that he didn't have the virus. That's just not how his life works. He turns to look at Sam, who looks back sadly. But Dean's not gonna be a part of his pity party, so he turns away and briefly closes his eyes. When he opens them, Millington's turned to her computer.

"What are you doing?" he asks, frowning.

"I'm reporting you, as that's my duty as a doctor who finds an LH patient. You have about five hours until you're expected at the, um, Hotel, starting from when I receive the confirmation that they have received my message. That's a rule because some people took a lot of time before... leaving. And thus spreading the virus."

  
Dean's not as shocked as he probably should be, because in the last hour or so his life has changed so drastically he has no energy left to complain. He shrugs, mutters a "Sure, whatever", and Millington turns to look at him once more. She hands him a few papers, tells him to fill them and gives him a polite nod. Dean and Sam rise and walk towards the door to leave, since there's nothing else to be done. When Dean has his hand on the handle, pressing it down, Millington calls after him.

"Dean?"

He turns around, fingers still curled around the handle. "Yeah?"

"I'm really sorry. About this whole mess. It's not– it's not fair that this is happening to anyone, but I promise the cure is on it's way. I'm sure it'll be ready soon. So you don't have to... worry about that. Even without it, you have at least five good years to live. The rest of the information can be found on the papers I just gave you. And once again, sorry."  
Dean doesn't know what to say, so he settles for a quiet "thank you", and a tight smile. Then he steps out to the hallway, Sam trailing after him. The door slams shut behind them.

**-.::.-**

They're driving, Sam sitting silent and worriedly eyeing Dean from time to time and Dean staring straight ahead at the road, lips pressed tightly in a line. It was three hours ago that they left the hospital, and neither has said a word since. Dean's had a lot of time to think, more than he may have wanted. They're still half an hour away from the facility – he refuses to call it a 'hotel' when it obviously isn't one – and he's still tempted to just turn around and drive away. But he won't, because Sam made him promise to go through with this for 'the greater good'. Sometimes, it feels, Sam's more invested in the health of people around him than in Dean's. Dean doesn't complain, not much at least. That's just the way Sam is, no reason to try and change him. Besides, at times like these when he keeps sneaking worried glances at Dean, he hopes he'd pay less attention. It's starting to get annoying.

Dean looks at the rear view mirror and catches the sight of a stack of papers scattered on the backseat. There's three of them. One's filled with information about the virus, which Dean quickly eyed through on the hospital without paying much attention to it because doctor Millington did a good job of briefing him in on the details before. In the second one he had to fill out, with the help of Sam, his health history and his basic information. A nurse had stopped by to explain that they'd have to give it to the facility once they got there, so they'd know if he had any allergies or special medication he required. Dean didn't understand what they did with that kind of things – why should they care if he ate peanuts or not, when he was about to die anyways? But he filled the paper regardless.

The third one, and according to the same nurse who'd told about the second paper, the most important one, wasn't really even a paper. It was a whole, empty notebook cleverly titled as 'Notebook', where Dean – and apparently everyone else who was infected – was supposed to write everything happening to him so that the development of the cure would be easier. He's not sure how keeping a diary will be any good, but whatever. It's not like he'll have anything better to do there.

They pass a sign that reads ' _Pasadena – 10 miles_ ', and he realizes they only have about ten minutes left before Dean has to step out of the car, leave the keys to Sam and walk in to the building where he's going to spend a good slice of time in alone. The sudden panic hits him like a tidal wave, and he takes a deep shuddering breath and steers his hands on the wheel. "Sam?" Dean asks, the first time he's said anything in hours. He notices from the corner of his eye Sam turning his head, but looks at the road instead of facing his brother. "Yeah?" Sam's voice is quiet, coaxing. Dean swallows his emotions the best he can.

"I just want you to know that when I'm... away–"

"Don't say that."

"– that I want you to look after this car, alright? If I come back, this better not have a scratch on her, you got it?"

Sam doesn't answer.

"Sammy?" Dean finally turns to look at him, and regrets it immediately. Sam looks sad, more sad than when they got the phone call about their father being on the hospital and they're mother being dead, and it's breaking Dean in more ways than should be possible. But he doesn't show it, he can't. He'll be brave for Sam, and later when he's alone, he can brake all he wants. Not now. Sam licks his lips and looks away from Dean.

"Sure. I'll take care of her. Don't worry about it."

Dean blinks rapidly, drying his eyes, and returns his look to the road. "Good. That's– thank you." Which is Dean's equivalent of 'I love you', and he knows Sam knows it too, because when he replies with a "no problem" his voice is thicker than normal. They drive the rest of the way in silence.

It only takes about five minutes, and way before Dean is ready they pull in front of an unfamiliar building. It looks huge and tiny at the same time, the small windows and cement walls creating an ugly contrast. It seems more like a prison than anything, the only thing missing being the lack of bars on the window frames. Dean turns the engine off, but doesn't get up just yet. He leans forward and presses his forehead against the wheel, breathing deeply in through his nose and out through his mouth. Why didn't he turn around? He could've made it pretty far already, why is he here? The building is already making him uncomfortable, sending off claustrophobic feelings he doesn't like. None of this is suppose to happen to him, the whole virus thing didn't even exist is his life before today. He's not ready for this, he doesn't want to do this, and he could still drive away. Sam would understand – he always understands.

"Dean? Are you, uh... you alright?" Sam asks in a small voice, and Dean feels his hand on his shoulder.

_No, I'm not fucking alright, this whole thing is crazy_ , he thinks but he doesn't say it out loud, of course he doesn't, because even if he's this close to being done Sam doesn't need to see it. So he straightens up, and forces out a smile. "Sure thing, Sammy," he says and it's hurting him how Sam probably sees right through his facade but doesn't say anything. "Let's do this." And before Sam can say something sympathetic and make Dean's urge to run away worse, he reaches to the backseat to grab the papers before getting out of the car. Luckily Sam doesn't say anything while they walk the short path to the front door, the small rocks crunching beneath them. By the time they're standing in front of it Dean's crumbled the papers in his hands, and tries to desperately straighten them before he has to step in. Although, who gives a crap about what shape the papers are in as long as they're here? Dean gives up and leans against the cold, gray cement wall. "So," he begins and turns towards Sam, keeping his eyes on the rocks. He decides it's safer to watch the ground than Sam.

"So," Sam echoes.

"You gonna come in or...?" Dean asks and hopes he won't. It's already hard enough now, to say goodbye. He breathes out a sigh of relief when Sam replies.

"Nah, I'll just... you know," he says and while Dean doesn't really know what he's talking about he nods slowly.

"Well, uh. I'm gonna miss you, man. Being all alone on that cement block..." Dean trails off, eyes lifting up to meet Sam's and he tries to smile. It comes out a bit crooked, but Sam returns it anyway. "You're not going to be like, alone alone. There's at least ten other people there." Dean manages a stiff laugh. "Well, that's a relief."

There's a pause while Dean thinks about what to say next. "Well, I guess I'd better go inside, then. So, uh..." He avoids looking at Sam again.

"Yeah. Good luck, I suppose. And uh, call me if it gets too much, alright? I can always come and visit you." Dean nods, smiling despite feeling like doing the exact opposite. "I will. Bye then, Sammy." Sam flashes one last smile before turning towards the car. Dean looks at his retreating back, his smile fading. He's turning to the door when Sam calls out to him.

"And Dean?"

Dean turns around, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"

Sam smiles sadly. "Don't call me Sammy." Then he turns, walking away towards the car and Dean's left alone, standing and watching his brother leave. The dust settles down after the car has disappeared around the corner, and Dean opens the door feeling hollow.

**-.::.-**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this took me a while. In my defense, I had six tests and well... I'm hella tired and lazy.

“Um, hi. I'm–“

“I don't really care.”

Dean stares at the woman behind the reception counter with a hopefully believable smile, carefully staying a few steps away. She frowns back, eyes narrowed. He was expecting her to be rude – he would be if he was stuck all day working in a place like this. He hadn't expected her to be a complete ass. He's having a bad day too, probably the worst of his life so far, and he'd bet a hundred bucks the reception lady wouldn't want to switch places with him right now. It takes a lot to restrain the snarky comeback he has on the tip of his tongue.

“You could use a painting or two, you know,” he says instead and the joking tone sounds bad even in his own ears. It's true enough, though: the place is about as decorative as a prison. The woman doesn't look bothered, sighing lightly. “You're not the first to say that. I suspect you won't be the last,” she states and Dean wonders how many times she's had to say the same thing to people coming and trying to deal with everything by humor. Before Dean can reply – not that he really knew what to reply with anyway – she pushes some papers across the desk and places a pen on top of the them. Dean looks down with raised eyebrows. She sighs again. “Sign these, please.”

Dean leans to look closer at the small print, squinting his eyes. Sam told him to be suspicious of everything, and carefully read the small prints. It would be easier if he could actually _see_ anything. “What are these for, exactly?”

“Some basic things we need you to legally give permission to.”

Which clears up absolutely fucking nothing. Now Dean wishes Sam would've gone with him after all. Legal things are his area, not Dean's. He barely knows any laws or regulations where as Sam could probably recite them all by heart. He shakes his head, lifting his eyes from the papers to the woman. She's watching him like she's gone through this same process too many times, which she probably has.

“I'm not gonna give you a permission to donate my organs or something,” he says and takes a step back. Around ten steps more and he could be out of here. Sam would pick him up if he called, he could be out of the city in a few hours.

“It's not– we're not asking you to do that, obviously. We're asking for a permission to study your health and the virus' effects on your body and mind.” Dean stays where he is, but relaxes his shoulders. “For example?”

“For example we may need to observe your heart rates, or see how different types of food affect you, or take brain scans every now and then. We need you to write down what you feel and how, or tell us on a recording that's allowed to use for publishing and research.”

Dean flinches out of a reflex, and feels like he's overly conscious of his heart again. It should be beating fast, match his vivid breathing, but instead it's slow as a steam train trying to push forward. He notices the pain around his body, the ache in his lower back and the feeling like there's an arrow stuck in his shoulder. His lungs tighten around his breathing, there's a throbbing on his ears, his bones feel like they've been broke. He imagines some doctors trying to make him drink something, writing down reactions and scanning him. He hates needles, has always hated them since Sam got into drugs years ago, and he can't, he _won't_ let them stick him with those filled with who knows what.

_The hell I'm gonna do anything for you_ , he thinks and takes another step back. His legs waver, and the woman starts to stand up, frowning again, hands on the edge of the table. “Sir,” she begins and steps around the desk uncertainly. “Sir, I must ask you to calm down please. Could you...?” Her hand that had still been on the table is now up, the palm facing Dean like a peace offering. Dean wonders if there's a training for this, for how to handle people who aren't accustomed to the idea of being a test subject, for fucking normal people that didn't know anything twelve hours ago. Then he discards the idea because it doesn't matter, nothing matters except that he's going to get out right now before he'll be trapped in. He stumbles backwards again, until his back hits something. The edge of his vision is blurring, but if he could just get out and _breath_ properly...

“Sir, are you– oh screw this.”

Dean distantly hears her getting closer, but the footsteps are echoing in his head and there are spots in his vision. There's something behind his back, causing pain as he leans against it, probably a door handle. He tries to get his hand there, trying to locate the thing without looking because if he turns around now the movement will most likely cost him a blackout he can't afford at the moment. He feels his fingers curl around something and pulls it down, closing his eyes since there's no point in keeping them open anymore, and he can already feel the outside air and hear the cars driving on the street. Now he just has to get to his phone. Why does he have to do that again? Dean can't exactly remember, his mind's fuzzy and when he tries to pry his lids open everything's foggy and unclear. There's a voice somewhere near by, someone's shouting and it's way too loud, his ears are ringing. _Shut up_ , he thinks and suddenly the voice is grabbing him by the arm and lifting him up. When did he fall?

“Sir, can you hear me? Sir? Please confirm if you can hear my voice,” the voice is saying. Dean tries to nod, but he's not sure how his muscles work anymore. He tries to open his mouth, but that seems like an impossible task too, so he gives up. Why should he answer anyway, why does the voice care if he hears it or not? Dean sure as hell doesn't.

“Is he responding?” Another voice asks, different from the first one. “I'm not sure,” the familiar voice says and now there are two hands keeping him up. Dean's not sure where up is anymore, though, so he might as well be laying down. “What do you mean you're ' _not sure_ '? Either he talks or he doesn't,” the second voice demands, and he – Dean's pretty sure the voice is too low to belong to a woman – sounds angry for some reason. Dean gets the urge to say something again, because he doesn't want the man to be angry at the other voice, but he can't figure out how. “Well, he... hasn't really _said_ anything. More like mumbled,” the nicer voice says. Dean likes that voice better. The lower voice sighs, seemingly frustrated. “Let's get him inside, then.”

And _now_ they're lifting him up, Dean can feel the ground beneath his feet like he's standing on clouds. He wants to walk by himself, he's not fucking five, but his limbs feel like they weight about a hundred pounds so he doesn't even try. The voices drag him along, and soon the fresh air changes into a clearly air-conditioned one and the rocks smooth down to a floor. He starts to get dizzier, and when the voices start to talk again he has to strain his ears to get what their saying.

“... the same room as Novak or not?”

“You mean Gabriel Novak? We're not gonna want this guy near him in this condition.”

“I guess you're right. Are there any empty rooms, though?”

“I don't know, we'll have to...”

The rest of the sentence fades away and Dean gives up. He doesn't hear anything else, and before soon, he can feel himself slip away to unconsciousness as the dizziness swallows him up.

 

**-.::.-**

 

Dean wakes up to someone talking cheerfully from somewhere on his right. He attempts to open his eyes to see who's in the room with him, but the sudden light makes him shut them again quickly. The talking stops for a moment before continuing again, closer this time. “Hey, you're the new guy, right?” Dean feels like he should answer, and so without opening his eyes he croaks out a quiet “I suppose so”. He's a bit hazy on what happened after he parted with Sam, however long ago that was. He remembers wanting to get out, and opening the door, but after that everything's black. It can't have been that long though. He doesn't feel like he's been out for more than a few hours at most. “I'm Gabriel. Call me Gabe, though, if you want. That's what my brothers call me.” Dean wants to tell him how much he doesn't care about that right now, but Gabriel starts talking again before Dean can express his thoughts out loud. “You got quite the flashy start there, dude. What with the passing out and all.” Dean grunts in response, and tries to open his eyes again, more carefully this time.

The first thing he sees is the white roof. A few black spots dance around his vision and he blinks them off the best he can before turning to look at Gabriel. What he sees is not exactly what he expected.

'Gabriel' equivalents a short, widely grinning man who practically screams ' _Danger, do not approach!'_. His hair looks like it's about the same length as Sam's, which is saying a lot because Sam looks like he's from a shampoo commercial, and his eyes twinkle in a way Dean's not all that comfortable with. “Good to finally see you up and at 'em. I was getting bored of you not talking back. And it _has_ been a good day or so since they brought you in.”

That throws Dean off. It can't have been a whole _day_ , can it? A layer of panic settles into his stomach again. _Sam's probably waiting for me to call_. He tries to sit up, only to fall back down when everything starts to spin around. “Do you– where's my phone?” Dean doesn't expect Gabriel to know, and he's right. The other man shrugs his shoulders and grins again. It seems to be a permanent look on his face. Dean finds it a bit unsettling. “No clue, Dean-o. Your name _is_ Dean, right? They said it is, when they dragged you in.”

Dean prays (or would pray if he believed in anything) that not everyone on this place is as talkative and annoying as Gabriel. He's tired and confused and someone blabbering his ear off doesn't really improve things in the slightest. He answers nevertheless, because he has a feeling Gabriel won't shut up before he says something. Probably not even then, but worth a shot. “Yeah, I'm Dean. Where's, uh...” Dean tries to remember the name of the woman with whom he recalls talking to before he passed out, only to come up with absolutely nothing. “You know what, never mind.” He tries to get up again, succeeding this time, and leans against the wall with a sigh. Now that he can see Gabriel properly, he notices that his hair's not as long as Sam's but close. He also looks, if possible, even shorter.

“If you mean where's Weller, she's probably by the office or something. And before you ask, Weller's the fine lady who was waiting for you by the front desk when you arrived and carried you here with Smith. I don't know how she got to that position, my bet is all the staff here drew sticks and she got the shortest one. Front desk duty sucks. Want me to go get her or...?”

Dean's replying before he can finish the question, eager to be alone if only for a few moments. He needs time to arrange things in his head, and this guy is not helping. “Yeah, please.”

Gabriel closes his mouth and salutes Dean while standing up. “Aye aye, on my way,” he says jokingly and then he's finally out of the room. Dean breathes out a sigh of relief and lets his shoulders relax.

Dean recaps all the events of the last few days, all the way from the visit to the doctor to coming here to fainting to waking up. It's nearly impossible to believe how much has happened in such a short course of time, and it brings him back to the time when their mother died. It had been a normal day with Dean working on the car and Sam being on school. And then Sam had gotten home, and they had gotten the call from the hospital, and then suddenly their life's had become a huge mess.

Dean's life is a mess at the moment, too.

Sometimes, it seems, life is really out to get him and fuck him up all the ways it can. Most of time it doesn't bother Dean. He keeps on smiling and thinking positively. But on the night's when he's staring at the bottom of the bottle and wallowing in self-pity, or when something like this happens, he just really wants to give up. He won't, though. He's lived through too much shit to die now. And he couldn't do that to Sam.

There's a knock on the door of the room, and Dean looks up to see the same woman who was at the reception standing on the doorway with a polite smile. He can see the tension behind it, but doesn't comment on it. Gabriel's not on sight, which makes Dean want to get up and dance. He doesn't, since even sitting up made him want to throw up. But if he could he would.

“Hey, Dean. Do you mind if I come in?” She asks, and without waiting for an answer steps inside. Dean doesn't move from where he's sitting, and eventually she ends up standing in front of him. The room, Dean notices now that he's looking, doesn't really have any furniture besides two beds and one closet that's pushed against the wall. There's only one small window opposite from the door. _As if this isn't claustrophobic enough already._

“Comfy place you've got here,” Dean says and the woman – was it Weller? – smiles more genuinely. “We do try our best.”

“I don't if that's what you want, but I'm not gonna sign anything unless that wasn't clear,” Dean says into the silence that descends after her words. She looks down at the floor, almost guiltily. Dean prepares himself to hear he's getting dissected in a minute or something equally bad.

“Yeah, that's not necessary anymore. We, um, called your brother.”

Dean sighs. He can already guess where this is going. _Fucking Sam and his fucking need to do the right thing._ “Let me guess, then. As my only living and reachable relative he gave you the 'go ahead', didn't he?”

Weller looks uncomfortable, shuffling her feet and avoiding looking at Dean. “Well, you were not awake and we thought... We asked if it would be alright for us to use your medical records and take samples and he said that if it's necessary, then we can do that.”

Dean closes his eyes, resigning to his fate already. Why is this happening to him again? Oh, right, the whole world hates him. “That's fantastic,” he mutters. “Just damn great.” Weller says nothing, but Dean can feel her pity without opening his eyes. Or maybe it's annoyance she is feelings – Dean sure as hell would be annoyed if he had to deal with stuff like this on daily basis. He got enough of playing doctor when Sam was finally out of rehab but still in danger or relapsing. He'd rather forget that part of their lives, but as it is, he can't seem to not think about. The harder he tries to forget the easier it gets it to remember. Weller, luckily enough, interrupts his thoughts by fishing his phone out of her pocket and tossing it over to Dean.

“I told your brother that you will be calling him tomorrow. If you want to, I mean. And he'll drop by later this week to bring your clothes and... whatever other necessities you may need. We'll provide you with clothes until that.”

Which is just magnificent, he can't _wait_ to wear three sizes too small shirts and pants that look like skirts. Well, things could be worse. He could be six feet tall like Sam.

Weller coughs into her hand, and takes a few steps towards the door. “I'll explain things in more detail tomorrow, promise. All you need to know now is that you'll be sharing this room with Gabriel Novak. You met him already, didn't you?” Dean thinks back to the other man and grimaces. “I did, yeah.”

Weller smiles, giving off the impression like she and Dean are friends with inside jokes when in truth they're hardly acquaintances. “He's a bit much, but try to remember that he's going through the same thing you are. Everyone here is. You're not alone with this, if that helps. We're always here if you need someone to talk to.” What Dean needs right now is sleep and possibly a beer or fifty, not a therapy group session with sharing and caring. He doesn't say it out loud, though, and after a few seconds Weller says brief goodbyes and leaves the room.

Dean thinks about getting up and getting to know the place. He thinks about finding Gabriel, if only to dull the silence with his blabbering. He thinks about getting his phone back and calling Sam.

Instead Dean closes his eyes and lays down, on a strange bed in a strange room, and hopes it'll all be better when he opens them again.

He knows it won't be.

But he can hope, because at the moment it's the only thing he has left.

**-.::.-**

 


End file.
